My life has become unbalanced in the past three or four months. I no longer go to the gym a minimum of three times a week, or drink eight glasses of water a day, or eat seven to nine servings of fruits or vegetables each day. Indeed, I've stalled to a near halt in doing any job-related work of a substantive nature, and have not completed a book since November (although I've started a few, the latest of which is a biograhy of Catherine the Great). These days, my time is spent daydreaming, making extraordinary lists for moving-related tasks, wedding plans, upcoming expenses, and job search findings, and prematurely packing my belongings into boxes that will soon make their way south via parcel post. I travel frequently, if not always in good nature, and have been watching more than my fair share of television, which was almost absent from my previous lifestyle. I spend hours and hours on the phone (nearly 2000 minutes were spent talking to Dallas on the phone last month, which does not include time we spent together, which was approximately 14 days, so when averaged out, we spent over 100 minutes a day talking on the phone). In some sense, this is just another winter -- as it gets colder and darker, I retreat farther and farther from activity and healthy eating, choosing instead to eat McDonald's cheeseburgers and desserts in an attempt to put myself into food hibernation. I must say, it's working well, but now it must end. I've realized that the happier I've been with Dallas, the less image-conscious I've become, resulting in high calorie, pleasure-giving foods like Butterfinger-topped frozen yogurt, guacamole and margaritas, carryout Indian food, and chips, many, many chips. Since there are already all kinds of food and love-related endorphins coursing through my body, there isn't the need for the runner's high I was craving and achieving this fall. The love-endorphins can stay, and I hope they do, but those pesky salt, sugar and fat highs I've been having must go. The post-engagement grace period is over. The wedding is precisely six months away, and I have about 10 or so pounds to lose before my dress fits perfectly (it fits now, but it could be much better in the tummy area -- no bride wants it whispered that she jumped the gun in the pregnancy department). To that end, I am strapping on my running shoes, throwing a new mix of songs onto the iPod Shuffle, and heading out for some sweaty, much-needed pavement pounding.
